


Double-(Oh) or Nothing

by feverbeats



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're a top-level government agent. How the hell did you get this far?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double-(Oh) or Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of differing canon re: what exactly a 00 means (whether it's a license to kill or something you're awarded after a kill/two kills in the field), so I fucking made it up. As usual.

Eames has to try most things in life at least twice before he knows whether or not he likes them. He tried women twice and stopped there. He's tried alcohol a fair few more times than that. He's tried most sorts of gambling multiple times. But he only had to kill a man once to know he didn't like it.

He's a highly competent agent, good with hand-to-hand combat, skilled in the art of knowing when to flee, and the best there is at collecting information. However, as M constantly reminds him, he should be a 00 agent by now. All he's lacking is a second kill.

"Just once," M tells him with frustration, "Just once you could take a bloody assassination job, Eames. Then you get your license and shoot men in the field."

Eames considers suggesting that there's no need, when he can incapacitate someone perfectly well. Instead, he just nods and says, "I agree, it's a bit absurd. Might as well just give me my 00 anyway. I've more than earned it." All he really wants are the other perks of the job.

But the only way to earn a 00 is with two assassination jobs, and M is not impressed.

This goes on for years, Eames doing second-rate jobs for second-rate recognition, always being sure to apply just enough pressure to throats, to shoot for the kneecaps, and to use an elbow to the face instead of a bullet.

Finally, M gets sick of it and Eames receives a brief for a mission in Australia, to take out an energy magnate. There's a note scribbled in the file: _Do this,_ it says, _and you'll earn it._

Eames feels cold. He never wanted a bloody 00 anyway. Well, that's not true, he's wanted one ever since MI6 recruited him, but he doesn't think he can do it. He accepts his file of further instructions from Cobb with a woeful look.

Cobb chews on his pen and shrugs. " _I'd_ be a better 00 than you," he says.

"Then why're you a rotten secretary?" Eames grouses, tucking the file away.

Cobb squints at him. "Just biding my time. Besides, M needs someone he can rely on."

"Fair enough," Eames says. "I'll see you when I get back."

"If you get back," Cobb returns darkly.

Eames can't help but feel smug when Agent Miles comes in. She's wearing a well-cut suit and carrying a gun in plain view on her hip. Eames can practically see Cobb's mouth go dry.

"Back alive, I see, 008," Eames says happily.

"Shockingly enough," Cobb adds fondly.

She laughs. "Did you really expect anything else, Mr. Cobb?" She shakes her hair out. "I'm leaving again, soon." The lilt of her always-unexpected accent soothes Eames' nerves a little. "I have a job in Japan, investigating a certain very powerful businessman. Kiss for luck?"

Cobb blushes, but he hides it well. "If you insist, Miss Miles."

Eames excuses himself before he can choke on all the sexual tension and pining. He likes Mal Miles, despite her ability to do her job better than he does his. There's just something imminently charming about her. He supposes that's part of why she's so good at what she does. She's also intriguing, because of those rumors that she's M's daughter, although no one really believes that.

*

Eames knows he's not meant to, but he wastes a little time sneaking into Y's lab. He's instantly greeted with a cry of, "Don't touch that!"

"I've only just come in," Eames points out.

Y, in his smoke-stained lab coat, says, "I was preempting you. What do you want now?"

Eames hops up to sit on the lab table, feet swinging. "They want me to assassinate someone. They haven't even told me _why_. I don't even know how he's meant to pose a threat to England."

"Yeah," Y agrees, "That's because you're just another kind of gun to them. And believe me, they don't like it that you keep . . . misfiring. It's mostly the principle of the thing." He pats Eames' arm and goes back to fiddling with what look like normal cufflinks. "Not for you," he admonishes, following Eames' gaze. "Not until you're a 00, and probably not even then."

"Not even for a kiss?" Eames inquires.

"You," Y says levelly, "need to grow up."

*

Eames is sent to Australia by private jet, which would be considerably more private were he not forced to share it with someone. Her name is Ariadne and she's a young field agent who's meant to be planning this op for him.

"Hey, _pay attention_ ," she says the fourth time he's looking out the window instead of listening.

"Sorry," Eames says, not really feeling it. "Nerves." It's a joke, but it's also true. He appreciates people not being able to tell the difference.

Ariadne, though, doesn't seem to find it that funny. "You're a top-level government agent. How the hell did you get this far?"

Eames is a little unsure of this himself, so he deflects. "I haven't seen you around before. Probably because you're about twelve."

She laughs. "You haven't seen me because I've been working with _real_ agents, Mr. Eames. Agent Miles requested me on her last three missions." She ducks her head, looking pleased, and goes back to her diagrams.

"I warn you," Eames says, "She's the love-'em-and-leave-'em sort."

Ariadne smiles down at the blueprint Eames was refusing to understand a few minutes ago. "We'll see."

*

He gets right to work his first night in Australia, although work always looks a lot like pleasure at first. He's wearing a well-cut suit, something that always throws him off a bit, and he hasn't got a date, which throws him off more. Ariadne opted not to join him, sadly. She would have looked lovely in a suit.

Eames drifts through the crowd, blending in perfectly as he does only when he's trying. It doesn't take him long to spot his target, Maurice Fischer. The man is surrounded by young women who are almost certainly only interested in his money, as he's no prize, and by older men who are clearly business partners or rivals. Standard, then. Fischer even looks like he's probably bit of an ass. Eames shouldn't have any trouble.

If he wants to do this, that is.

While he's contemplating exactly how to get out of this one without losing his job, someone taps him on the arm. He turns and gets an eyeful of a ridiculously pretty young man in a ridiculously expensive suit. This is Eames's favorite part of a mission.

The young man smiles, shaking dark curls out of his eyes. "Hi. Are you a friend of my father's?"

Ah, so this would be Fischer's son, Robert, then. The brief did not include a picture, something Eames regrets deeply. That might have _prepared_ him. "Well, hello there," he says smoothly, wondering just how easy it would be to get Robert into bed. After all, that would be a good way to get close to the father.

Added bonuses aside, of course.

"I'm not yet acquainted with your father," Eames says, and the young man's expression dissolves into a brilliant smile.

*

"Fuck, fuck, oh _fuck_."

Robert Fischer, it turns out, is really loud in bed. Eames usually prefers to bottom, but Robert writhing under him is a perfectly acceptable situation. They're in an upstairs bedroom in Fischer's impossibly posh house, silk sheets and wine bottles and all.

Actually, _this_ is Eames' favorite part of a mission.

"What," Robert gasps, arching under Eames and shuddering, "What's your name?"

Eames curls his fingers, digging blunt nails into Robert's hips. "Eames."

"Just—ahh—Eames?"

Eames slaps Robert's hip lightly. "You won't have heard of me, anyhow."

Robert just groans and drives himself back against Eames.

Afterwards, Robert curls against Eames, skin slick with sweat. Eames wishes he weren't so easy for a pretty face.

"Your father," he whispers. "I need a word with him. Do you think you could arrange that?"

Of course," Robert says, his voice suddenly icy. Eames should pay attention to the way his voice changes, but he doesn't, because he never does.

*

By the time Eames has slipped out, leaving Robert apparently sleeping, the hallway is full of security guards.

"Ah," Eames says. "Right. Never trust the pretty ones."

And he runs. Outnumbered, the only other alternative is guns, and he's not in the mood to aim for the knees.

The trouble is, Fischer is apparently paranoid enough to have a _lot_ of security. Eames dodges out of the hallway only to find the landing swarming with men in serious-looking suits already.

"Stop!" one of them shouts, which is all the encouragement Eames needs to fling himself over the railing to the landing below, which is thus far unoccupied.

Once he makes sure his ankles are still working properly, he yanks the door to the main reception room open and weaves through a crowd of surprised-looking women in nice dresses and businessmen who are probably armed.

He hears another minor disturbance behind him as his pursuers undoubtedly catch up. Right, then. The street. Flight isn't dignified, but even if he were the type to start shooting, he wouldn't be able to do it in a crowded room.

Outside, however, there are more security guards arriving. One of them actually fires at him, and he grimaces before doing a somewhat dubious roll down the front steps. He stumbles upright, bruised and swearing, only to practically slam into the side of a limousine parked on the curb.

Another shot goes off behind him.

When the door of the limo opens, Eames doesn't think twice before flinging himself inside.

*

"Well, Mr. Eames, you've lived up to your reputation so far."

Eames blinks, getting his bearings. He's currently on the floor of the nicest limousine he's ever been in, looking up a young man in a three-piece suit even nicer than Robert's. The man gives Eames a little smile. He looks relaxed.

"Er," Eames says. "I'm afraid you have the advantage of me."

The young man stretches, showing off his suit. "I do." He pauses. "You can call me Arthur."

And Eames, as he always does, falls hopelessly and immediately in love. "Pleasure to meet you," he says, picking himself up off the floor and settling in the seat across from Arthur. "To what do I owe this unexpected rescue?"

Arthur hides a smile behind his hand as the car rolls into motion. "I've been watching you since you arrived in Australia. You work fast. But you don't work particularly _well_." The corner of his mouth twitches again.

Eames sighs. He's not about to get offended over the truth. "I don't suppose you have any better ideas."

"Actually," Arthur says, "I do."

*

Arthur's hotel, on the other side of Sydney, is exactly the kind of place Eames would have pictured, judging by Arthur's suit and car. He takes Eames up to his room and makes him wait.

"Who are you, anyway?" Eames calls into the other room, curious because beautiful people are always intriguing and nearly always planning to kill him. He plays with the edge of the hotel comforter and looks out at the city skyline. This job does have some perks.

Several, actually, Eames reminds himself as Arthur emerges from the other room, dressed in a gorgeous gray suit with silver cufflinks. He's wearing a shoulder holster. "Who am I, Mr. Eames?" he asks.

"Never mind," Eames says. "It doesn't actually matter all that much."

*

"I'm a little unclear," Eames says conversationally, although he's getting more nervous by the minute. "Explain to me why you need to be dressed to the nines to sneak in through Fischer's basement?"

Arthur gives him a look before finishing picking the lock. "I like to look nice, and if you're supposed to be taking Fischer out, people will see us eventually."

Eames eases through the door behind Arthur, still not even close to satisfied. "Why are you helping me? I'm honestly asking."

Arthur doesn't turn. "I told you. I've been watching you. And I think you need the help. You're looking for your license to kill at will in the course of a job, aren't you?" Arthur sounds like a particularly lovely textbook.

"Yeah, I am. And do you have a license to kill?" Eames asks, his mouth dry. If Arthur's a 00, that explains everything.

Arthur smiles, his mouth sharp at the edges. "No, I think that might get in my way. I don't work for anyone but myself, Mr. Eames."

Eames follows him.

*

By the time they make it to the ground floor, the party has dissipated somewhat. Arthur points out that the front door is heavily guarded, as he suspected.

"The basement was a good idea, then," Eames concedes.

"I always have good ideas. Now, watch a professional show you how it's done."

Eames is tempted to argue, but so far, Arthur has proven himself to be much more competent than Eames is on a good day, which this is not.

Arthur strolls over to the bar that Fischer is decadent enough to have in his house and leans over it. "I've just arrived," he says, his voice low and smooth. Eames inches further out of sight behind a potted palm. "It looks like the function's breaking up a little early."

"Yeah," the bartender says, clearly captivated, "Security apparently got word that there was some Englishman here going after Mr. Fischer. He's got a lot of enemies, what with the new energy development project."

"I see," Arthur says. "And did they get him?"

"No. He got away in a limo. S'pose we'll get him next time around."

They don't sound very concerned about Eames, which is annoying, but he's distracted from his irritation by the way Arthur leans across the bar.

"I'd like a martini," he practically purrs. "Stirred."

The bartender swallows visibly. "Uh, yeah, of course."

Arthur actually _winks_ at Eames. It's hard to be suave when surrounded by gorgeous men.

After getting his drink, Arthur saunters back over to Eames. "So here's how we do this. I go upstairs to Fischer's room, where he's lying low. I incapacitate his second-in-command, Peter Browning. While I'm doing that, you'll be dealing with the son, Robert." He raises his eyebrows slightly. "Try not to die. By the time you're done subduing him, I'll have put two bullets through Fischer's skull. Any questions?"

Eames knees are a little weak. "What happens after that?"

"After that," Arthur says, "You fly back to England with your second kill under your belt. You get all the upgrades you've been after, including the license you'll never use."

"Why?" Eames asks.

"Because before you go back to England," Arthur says delicately, "You're going to take me back to my hotel and let me fuck you into the mattress."

Arthur makes a compelling case, really.

"Right," Eames says. "Fair enough. No car chases? I'm not required to leap from any planes?" He's heard horror stories from Agent Miles, although she doesn't tell them like horror stories.

"Save that for when you're a 00, Mr. Eames," Arthur suggests, grinning.


End file.
